


Sharp Edges

by PoeticallyIrritating



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, TW: Blood, cw: mentions of abuse, cw: mentions of drug addiction, tw: blades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeticallyIrritating/pseuds/PoeticallyIrritating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"You wouldn't."</em>
  <br/>
  <em>"Leekie wouldn't. Rachel might."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Rachel comes home early.</p><p>Contains spoilers for 2x04.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Edges

Sarah’s shaking harder than she ever has in her life. And she’s been through some  _shit_. Not like Cosima, who’s due to crash down from the damn ivory tower any day now, or Alison fuckin’ Hendrix, whose cushy suburban life is shattering around her. Sarah’s spent her  _life_  running and being backed into corners, but even shuddering in withdrawal against a grimy toilet, even cowering away from her angry high school boyfriend before she learned how to hit back, she’s never felt like this. Like her legs are crumbling beneath her. It’s a good thing she’s tied to the shower because the zipties digging into her wrists are the only thing keeping her upright. Daniel, bloodied, back from the dead, and terrifyingly calm, is questioning her about the picture: Project Leda. The Duncans. But defiance comes as naturally as breathing. “Eat me,” she says, and propels a gob of saliva into his face. Smirks, all teenage bravado.

“You’re not really the smartest clone, are you?” he says, and his voice is measured.

Sarah snipes back but she can hear her voice shaking. Calls him unworthy. This man in Rachel Duncan’s bed...she almost wants to laugh. The cold-hearted bastards deserve each other.

And then he unfolds a razor and suddenly things feel very, very real.

“Daniel.” She can hear the pleading in her own voice and  _hates_ it, hates him. Slams into the offensive again. “What are you so scared for us to find out about Project Leda?”

He’s sharpening the razor, methodical, and Sarah’s breathing is coming fast and shallow. “What makes you think,” he says, swiping the blade against leather with a sound like sandpaper, “you’re going to be able to tell anyone when we’re done?”

She’s shaking her head, because—God—in all the years she weathered of bruises and split lips and track marks she never once imagined this, never imagined a careful man with a clean blade and steely eyes. “You wouldn’t,” she’s saying, because nothing else will come out—“You wouldn’t.”

A sound makes Daniel pause, his hand on the blade stilling to listen. Like a door slamming shut. He sets the blade on the counter, but he’s not two steps out of the bathroom before he says, “Rachel.”

“Daniel.” Rachel’s voice is velvet. She steps through the doorway, heels clacking on tile. “I see you found her.” Her eyes flash from him, blood-soaked, to the blade on the counter, to Sarah shuddering out her breaths in the shower. To the picture. “Leave us,” she says, and he does.

“Quite a lapdog you’ve got there,” says Sarah, vicious, straining at the ties.

Rachel’s smirk grows slow across her face, and she picks up the razor from where it’s resting on the counter. Draws a silver-manicured fingertip experimentally along the sharp edge. “Daniel’s methods can be crude,” she says. “But they are very effective.”

“Why did you send him away, then?” She tracks the blade, eyes following as Rachel snaps it shut—as she opens it up again with a flash of silver.

“I’ve learned quite a bit from him.” She’s moving forward almost absently, eyes still on the blade rather than Sarah. “But sometimes I prefer a more—ah—personal touch.”

 _Oh, God._ “Rachel.” She’s gasping now, wild-eyed, pressing back against the wall, away from Rachel; she pulls frantically at her cutting plastic restraints. “Rachel, you wouldn’t do this. You can’t. Not to me.”

She’s very close now, the glint of the blade shining in Sarah’s eyes. “Oh, Sarah,” she says, low, “do you think you’re special?” She presses it sharp against the skin of her neck. Her breath is unexpectedly hot against Sarah’s cheek. “Why did you think I would show you mercy, when you showed me none?”

“You asked me not to shoot you,” Sarah snarls, shaking against the edge of the blade on her skin. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m a bloody saint.”

“No, Sarah.” Her voice remains slow and controlled, even with the blade in her hand pressed against what are probably very important arteries. “I’m only alive because you are not a killer.” She presses harder and Sarah can tell they’ll be breaking skin soon; her breath hitches and she arches away, desperately. “But the truth is...I haven’t decided yet.” She releases the pressure on Sarah’s neck, drawing the blade back in front of her. Between them. “There was some information Daniel was asking for. I think it would be in everyone’s best interests if you offered it before I’m forced to do something drastic.”

“What, like slit my throat? I’m not much use to you dead.”

“Daniel,” says Rachel slowly, bringing the razor up under Sarah’s chin, “is not the only one who can be creative with a blade.” It’s cold against her skin, and hard, and she’s afraid to move, afraid of letting the sharp edge dig in. She holds her breath until she can’t anymore, and it comes out all at once, long and shuddering. Rachel’s hand on the blade trembles, and she’s close enough for Sarah to feel her body heat. Human after all, then.

“I’m not telling you shite,” Sarah growls, and she’s barely finished speaking before the blade bites into her skin. She yells, or roars, or sobs. Blood trickles down her neck and Rachel digs in deeper, gasping breathless in Sarah’s ear.

It’s the sound of music that draws Rachel away, and Sarah must be dreaming—must be imagining, delirious, dying—but Rachel is saying curtly into her phone, “Daniel. There’s a problem.” And then she’s gone, letting the blood-tipped blade clatter on the floor.

-

Later, after a team of discreet individuals has cleaned the apartment of blood, of Daniel’s body, Rachel lies in bed where a dead man lay and slides her hand beneath lace underwear, probing the wetness there with something like curiosity—something like disgust. She bucks up against her hand, forcing friction with her fingertips, and comes on the taste of metal.


End file.
